The gentleman with his after lunch smoke has left a pleasant perfume and the pigeons have returned, only to have their sod-pecking routine interrupted by a wandering man. Clumsily coming around the block he waves his arms in exhausted frustration at the flock, shooing them away.

He sits with an untimely weight, takes off his boots, shakes a few pebbles through a worn hole and lies down. Resting his back on the stone, he undoes a pin from his vest and grapples it. Holding it outward calling and calling and calling and no one came.

He lay there sort of asleep arms aside and legs dangling. His camouflaged sand-patched clothing, covered in sweat and dust, displayed a tired uniform and I could tell he was true Saunterer. Leaving behind everything to join the Holy walk and at the end, a last hope for eternal rest. He lay there, silent, as the sun dipped behind the buildings. I dropped my ladder and walked away.